


Little Runner

by Calyps0



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: But I ship it anyway, F/M, reverse xs - Freeform, this is nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyps0/pseuds/Calyps0
Summary: I'M SORRY BUT I HAD TO





	Little Runner

_Little runner_ , his voice echoes. In the air, in the ether, in her breath. In the smog and smoke and distance. In the fires and the embers and the rivers and the skies. Echoes: again, again, again. His voice— a rasp with a lilt, a song with no tune—a beckoning, just for her. It is soft, it is tremulous, it is terrifying. _Danger_ , her heart screams, at the red of his eyes—at their gaze, unseeing yet unyielding. At the way his body moves—so fast, so devastatingly fast. He is a blur, a void, a silence. As if he is not a man at all, but a storm, beautiful and terrible.

She could believe that, almost. She could force herself to slumber in the darkness of his past, look upon his actions with horror and disdain, sleep in the wintery garden where the thorns of his ire are sown.

But the man is real, and he is not a storm, or a garden, and no thorns skate their way across his heart like a cage. He is simple brown eyes and freckled skin and a steady whisper in her ear.

This fear, she knows, is a burden others have thrust upon her shoulders; it is born in the way they breathe his name: dark, tremulous, and full of regret. It is born when they shade their eyes against the pain that has scarred their innards, at the memory of a woman with red hair whose strings, like a puppet’s, were cut—too short, too soon, a wound too horridly fresh.

And she knows she should feel the wound, too, as biting as if it were her own heart, as if she could feel warm blood under a sharp cleaver, splitting veins and arteries asunder.

But she doesn’t. She bears her own life, her own guilt, her own loves, and as much as it pains her to admit, this woman with flames for hair is unknown to her. This stranger with fine, splintered connections to her blood is hazy and fractured, and is not a line to draw in the sand, is not the place she lays down and weeps.

 _Little runner,_ it echoes again, and she does not think _danger_ this time. She does not think of the storm or the red or the terror. She thinks of _him_ —his tousled hair, his roguish expression.

His ferocity, his anger, his intelligence. His capacity for hatred. His cunning ruthlessness, the smugness of his stance, the surety by which he stands, resolute as a mountainside.

But past the walls, and past the fear, far beyond the shields of her own design, in that dormant space where the streams lay still and her soul is laid bare, there also lies a memory, and she sinks down into it now.

The first moment she saw him. Like a trance, like a waking dream. The way their eyes met and the space between them resonated with a sameness, a recognition of the lightning that raced in his and her veins alike. That same lightning that spiked along her fingertips and dipped beyond his collarbones and arched across her shoulder blades and ruffled the soft wisps of his hair. That whipped along his skin and hers as they raced, as they _ran_ , as the fire took them both. 

The lightning that ignited them. The lightning that saved them.

 _Little runner,_ he murmurs again, closer still. And a final memory comes to her.

His bedroom eyes, his dark, wet mouth, the pink of his lips and the rosy flush of his hollowed cheeks. His arms spread out, bones that fit her frame like sockets, snug and right. The way he whispers her name—so soft, so quiet, just for her.

_Nora. My little runner._

_Mine._

**Author's Note:**

> I AM DEFINITELY GOING DOWN WITH THIS SHIP.
> 
> Anyway, if you liked this nonsense, let me know!


End file.
